


The Love Song of M. Hughes

by AVMabs



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Afterlife, Angst, FMA Secret Santa 2017, Gen, Grief/Mourning, T.S. Eliot - Freeform, platonic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 11:52:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13235157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AVMabs/pseuds/AVMabs
Summary: Amid smatterings of a poem whose name Maes can't seem to remember, he tries to bridge the gap between life and death.





	The Love Song of M. Hughes

**Author's Note:**

> For the wonderful @dancolibri on Tumblr, for FMA Secret Santa 2017. The bits of poem come from T.S. Eliot's 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock'.

Maes knows instinctively that he is just the right temperature.  It is not because of his skin, or any kind of physical function.  He just knows, in the same way that he knows his legs are used for walking and his eyes are used for seeing.  In a manner much like this, he also knows that although he is surrounded by white in all possible directions, a vast expanse of undecidedness, he should keep moving forward. 

He keeps moving forward.  There is nothing for him behind.  There is nothing for him to the left, or to the right.  Forward.

He does not stop to wonder what he is doing.  He doesn’t stop at all.  Doesn’t even think.  In fact, he is not even aware, in the moment, that he has the barest capability of thought, nor of physical feeling.  If he could feel any physical sensations, he would probably be aware of the neat little bullet-hole between his ribs.  But this Maes, suspended, feels nothing.

*

In the same place, yet one opposite, Maes hears a noise.

*

It’s a footstep, perhaps – or – no, it’s creaking.  Maes, aware, swivels on the spot and swallows anxiously at some supernatural reprimand playing at the back of his mind.  He has no heart, but he feels palpitations working at his soul as he sees a great grey door only seconds from closing.  He thunders towards it, but something in his chest weighs him down.  Perhaps it is time.  Time seems to slow, no matter how he thinks of it, or he would not see the Other Side in such perfect detail.

It is the cemetery he sees first, and lush green grass.  The cemetery always was well kept.  There is a crowd of people, all in military uniforms, standing up ramrod straight.  Maes glances over them.  Familiar faces.  There isn’t a person he doesn’t recognise.  Even the Fuhrer is there, trembling on his cane.  They must be mourning someone important, Maes thinks.   The coffin is sleek and glossy, and Maes imagines it matched very well with the hearse.  People with funerals like these always have a hearse: they can afford the new model of car, after all.  A ring of white flowers lies atop it.  It’s a nice, delicate touch.  He thinks Gracia would do a similar sort of thing.

He muses on the point for a long moment before he’s ripped from the thought from a wail.  He wonders why his heart isn’t thudding in his throat.  Little girls cry like that.  Elicia cries like that.  Elicia is crying like that. 

Maes’s eyes widen, simultaneous with his little girl’s cry of “daddy?”.

He tries to struggle forward, hearing his own reassurances of “daddy’s here, sweetheart, daddy’s coming” sticking in his throat like gum against his teeth.  It’s like wading through syrup.  He can’t move or speak.

And then, like unsticking himself from a thick muddy swamp, he takes a step forward.  Gracia sweeps Elicia onto one arm, pressing a handkerchief to her face with her free hand.  She’s all in black, just like Elicia.  Maes doesn’t think Elicia has ever had a black item of clothing before today, barring shoes and hair ties.  He doesn’t like it.  He wishes she was in pink and he wishes Gracia was in green.

And, as he looks around more closely, he wishes Roy wouldn’t slick his hair back.  It looks ridiculous; not Roy at all.   And – _God_ – Roy is so pale.  It seems as if he should be the one in the coffin, but he’s not.  Besides, Roy wouldn’t have a white ring of flowers on his coffin.  He doesn’t like white flowers.

As the crowds begin to process out of the cemetery, Maes tries to track them.  He scans for a hint of metal, or for big golden eyes and hair in a chunky golden braid.  He doesn’t see either.  For a moment, he is relieved.  He’s glad he hasn’t let those boys down.  Only, if they aren’t here, where are they?  Maes doesn’t want to think about it.  He hopes Roy is pale because of him, and not the boys.  It’s against everything good for anything to happen to those boys. 

Everyone processes out, Maes notices, except for Roy and Lieutenant Hawkeye, who stand over his grave.  For a moment, Maes snickers.  It’s typical for Roy to be dramatic like that, military cap shadowing his eyes and the sun setting on the horizon, its silhouette mounting the grave.  Then, Roy stares up at the sky and that same dramatic sunset highlights a glistening trail over his cheeks.  Maes stops snickering. 

He’s seen Roy cry with pain.  He’s seen Roy cry with frustration.  He has never seen Roy tip his head back in silence.  It’s awful.  Awful isn’t a strong enough word for it.

Maes hopes – maybe even prays – that Roy never loses Hawkeye.

He stares through the open door.  Then, he realises, he can do more than just stare.  He struggles, trying so desperately to break free of the invisible binds that his soul aches like his arms and legs after a good run.

The door closes.

Maes stands, panting (but not). 

“I’m staying here,” he says to nobody.

*

The funny thing about the afterlife is that there is no way to measure time.  It’s a vast expanse, silent.  Yet, no matter what he does, Maes remembers an old poem.

*

_In the room the women come and go,  
Talking of Michelangelo._

*

There are no women here, and Michelangelo is _certainly_ nowhere to be found.  Even so, something about the poem is apt.  Maes has been in-between for about a week, if time does indeed pass in the same way in the in-between, when he realises why the poem is so evocative of the place.

“And indeed, there will be time,” he mutters to himself, one thought.  (His life must now be measured in thoughts).  And, his next passing thought is that there may not be time. 

Perhaps, he thinks, he will return home and neither Gracia nor Elicia will recognise him.  Gracia, bowled up in a nursing home, crying for her husband, hair white and mouth tight with years.  She would still be beautiful to him.  Elicia, kissing her little boy’s head: a boy named after him, but Maes rings the doorbell and she answers with a kind, impersonal “can I help you?”.  He’s glad she has children.

And then, before his thoughts can switch to Roy and the Elric Boys toasting the Solstice with mulled wine for Roy and warm cranberry juice for the Boys, Maes swivels hears the door creaking open.  Immediately, he becomes aware of a fake-throbbing in his shoulder.  He squints at the gate.  The person who comes through it is unrecognisable.  Its body is a mess of charring, and sometimes when it takes a step an extra bit of skin dusts the ground like red-black icing sugar.  Maes is glad the creature can’t feel pain, or it would truly be in agony.  He wonders how long it took for the nerves to die as it was burning to death.  He hopes it wasn’t too long.

“Oh,” says the Thing, in a surprisingly full, smooth voice.  “I thought you would have passed on by now.”

Maes’s eyes widen.  “It’s you,” he says.  “You stabbed me.”

“Yes,” confirms the thing.  “I _was_ Lust.”

“Someone killed you, then?” enquires Maes.

“Your best friend,” says Lust.  “And to _think_ , I thought I’d killed him.”  She sounds sulky above all else.  Maes would have expected her to be a bit more devastated about the whole _being dead_ thing. 

Satisfied, Maes makes his way towards the open door.  Four long, black spears shoot to his right.  He glances left, only to see a symmetrical set.  He curses.  If he gets on his knees and crawls, she’ll just centre herself lower.  “Hey,” he says.  “I’ve got a kid back home.”

Lust blinks at him.

He gives an internal sigh. “C’mon,” he says.  “I know this sympathy stuff isn’t your thing, but have a heart.”

“I don’t,” she says.  “No souls, either.  Once I’m through in here, I’ll be obliterated.”

Maes stares into her empty left eye socket.  “Obliterated, huh?”  Well, now he’s onto something.  “I bet I could stop that from happening,” he says.

Lust doesn’t lower her claws, but the filmy remainder of her right eye flutters down to meet Maes.  “Go on,” she says.  “How do you plan to do that?”

“Easy,” says Maes.  “Come back with me.”

He had anticipated that Lust might not take the offer, but he had not anticipated the long, low, slow belly laugh that begins to tear from her chest.  As it shakes, little flakes of skin and – oh, that’s _organ_ – begin to flutter to the ground.  It reminds Maes of the time a girl in the Academy, suffering from a particularly dry scalp, had shaken her head one day and been humiliated as soft white-yellow flakes of dandruff had covered her shoulders.  The difference, of course, between her and Lust, is that Lust shows no sign of embarrassment, or even stopping.

“ _What_ ,” says Maes, finally.

Coughing out her last few laughs, and plucking a piece of half-loose skin from her eyelid, Lust stares at him.  “Do you _honestly_ think I’d want to live without a Philosopher’s Stone?”

Maes shrugs.  “I did.”

Lust snorts.  Maes looks away from the flurry of skin that flutters out of her nostrils like leaves on the wind.  “That’s your mistake,” she says. 

Maes is about to argue the human side of things, but Lust carries on.

“Take a look at my body,” she says.  “I’d die in seconds, and I’d die in agony.” 

Maes can’t argue with that.

“And you,” she says.  “I can still see blood soaking through your jacket.  Do you think you’d stand a better chance?”

Maybe not.  “I still have to _try_ ,” he says.

Lust stands, stock still.  Stares at him.

“ _Please_.”

Lust doesn’t budge. 

Then, Maes thinks, there’s nothing for it.  He lunges, desperately surging towards the door.  It’s _there_ , and it’s _open._ He thinks back to his academy training.  He’s good at sprinting.  Comes naturally to him.  Tall, skinny, long legs.  

For a moment, he’s entirely focused on getting through that door.  If he can just get through, he thinks, then none of this emptiness will have been for nothing.  The door.  Big.  Grey-brown.  Ornate with markings he doesn’t understand.  _Open_.

Any doctor will tell you that there is nothing more apt at pulling one’s focus than being completely impaled. 

Maes chokes.  The skewers aren’t in his chest.  They’re in his shoulder again.  Just like last time.  Only, they’re more white-hot, and he thinks how he spent days without any pain, and then _this_.  He forces his jaw closed, if only so that he doesn’t give Lust the satisfaction of hearing him scream.  He forces his eyes open.

Lust seems far from him, tucked away in the distance – but the door is still there.  _He must get to the door_. 

Something fuzzy floats at his vision.  For a moment, he mistakes it for a moth batting against his old lampshade, but it doesn’t go away when he pushes at it.  A moment later, he realises his vision is tunnelling inward.  He bites down on his lip and pulls his focus towards the pain in his shoulder.  _Stay awake_.

Eyes wide open, he stares into the Gate.

It nearly shuts again.  And he sees like he did last time.

First, it’s the outside of his apartment.  Just a big brown door.  Then it opens.  There’s a glimpse of Gracia, then two blonde heads and the reflection of the light off a large sheet of metal.  Maes feels his heart sink.  They’re just _kids_.  They shouldn’t have to deal with this stuff.  They shouldn’t know _how_ , he thinks, as he sees Ed take a moment to gather himself.  He decides, in that moment, that there is very little worse than seeing a teenager know exactly how to close his eyes and breathe into his chest just to get through the rest of the day.

He refines that assessment a moment later, when he hears Elicia’s tiny voice plead with Gracia.  “Don’t cry, mommy.”  There is nothing worse.  There is nothing worse.

In the next vision, he decides that Lust, charred to death, is good preparation for seeing another charred body hitting the ground.  It’s Maria Ross.  Maes curses the Homunculi. 

 _Maria Ross has a mole under her left eye_.

Roy’s work, undoubtedly.  Maes bites down even harder on his lip as he considers the ethical dilemma: let Roy think he murdered a guilty woman or clear her name.  He refocuses on the pain, just to stop thinking. 

Then, amidst the white-hot agony, he catches sight of a glove being torn to shreds.

“ _Jean_!”

And then the shadows grow, and he lets them consume him.

*

When Maes wakes, he’s in a bed.  It isn’t the same thick, downy mattress he shares with Gracia, but he’s sure it’s better than the hard nothingness of the in-between.  His shoulder doesn’t hurt much, though it does twinge when he tries to roll over.  He looks around, but without his glasses, he doesn’t manage much more than colours and shapes.  At least, he knows, the floor must be wooden, and the walls painted white, with a figure blurring around as things bubble in a pot. 

“Hey,” says Maes, trying to catch the figure’s attention. 

The figure turns.  “You’re awake!” it says.

“Yeah,” says Maes.  “Could I have my glasses?  Not so good with the old eyes.”

“Of course,” says the figure, and Maes sees the familiar black lines he’s come to associate with soft mornings, rolling over in bed to put them on so he can scramble eggs for Elicia.

As he puts them on, he’s pleased to find his pet theories about the room’s interior design are indeed correct.  He blinks at the figure, and immediately recoils in surprise.

“You’re an Ishvalan,” he says.

The man smiles.  “Yes, I am.”  He pauses for a second.  “If that’s going to be a problem, I can get someone else.”

“No,” says Maes.  “Not at all.  I’m just surprised you’d help someone like me.”  He’s still in his military blues.

The figure shrugs, and Maes realises a moment later that he only has one arm.  He tries to ignore it.  The man probably doesn’t need him to stare.  He also probably already knows that he only has one arm, and doesn’t need Maes to exacerbate it.

Maes swallows.  “Where am I?”

“Purgatory,” says the man.  “You’ll never die here, but it was worth giving you care, or you’d have been in a lot of pain.”

Maes blinks.  “How’d _you_ end up here and not in heaven?”

“Nothing for you to question,” says the man.  After a pause, he sighs and sits on the edge of Maes’s bed.  “I defied God’s will,” he says.  “Alchemy.”

“Alchemy?” _Hang on_.

“My kinsmen tried to warn me against it, but I carried on, and here I am.”

Maes doesn’t really listen, and instead pushes himself up to see eye to eye with the man, who attempts feebly to push him back down onto the bed.  “If you know alchemy,” says Maes, “then you can help me get back to the in-between.” 

The man frowns down at him.  “I don’t know if you heard me,” he says, “but I don’t practice alchemy anymore.”

Maes slumps in disappointment.  “I see,” he says.

There is a moment of silence before the man looks down at Maes.  “You should get some more sleep,” he says.  “It’s the best healer, after modern medicine.”

Maes finds himself too tired to object, and lets himself drop under.  Before he does, he is unable to stop a fleeting memory of Roy falling backwards, struck by a bullet.  Unable to forget shooting Heathcliff without hesitation.  Unable to forget the fact that Roy wasn’t even injured.  Unable to forget that he hadn’t even been punished for it.

He wakes up what seems like barely a moment later.  The man is still there, Maes sees, though he has confiscated Maes’s glasses again.  A second later, after a brief fumbling on the bedside table, Maes retrieves his glasses and blinks at the man, who’s stirring a bowl of broth. 

He watches silently, observing the man as he functions unnervingly well with neither a flesh arm nor automail to replace it.  If he convinces him to come back with him, he’ll introduce him to Winry.  He seems like the kind of man who’d look after his automail.  Maes doesn’t doubt that Winry would approve of him. 

The man reaches out for a small jar just next to the pot, and Maes bites his lip in surprise as his sleeve rucks up his arm.  There, on his remaining wrist, is the unmistakable mark of alchemy.  A thick black tattoo, intricate, bold and familiar.

A minute later, the man offers Maes the broth.

“You’re awake,” he says.

Maes, unwilling to talk around the subject, looks him in the eye.  “I saw your tattoo,” he says as he accepts the broth.

“Ah,” says the man.  There’s a moment of silence.  “No matter,” he says.  “It’s useless without the other one.”

Maes blinks slyly, rather like a cat watching some prey.  “Your brother didn’t seem to think so.”

The man looks shocked for a moment.  “My brother,” he murmurs.  “No, I don’t suppose he did.”  He pauses for a moment.  “When did you meet him?”

Maes clears his throat.  “He was watched by the military police,” he says.  “He killed a lot of people – State Alchemists, mostly.”

The man looks downcast, and Maes almost wishes he’d kept quiet about it.  “I wish he hadn’t,” he says.  “I didn’t intend my alchemy to be used in that way.”

He tips his arm at the elbow so that his sleeve slides up to reveal his tattoo.  “This is for reconstruction,” he says.  “The other arm was only ever meant to bring things apart to be put back together.”

“He stopped after bringing things apart,” says Maes.  “He killed good men – men who tried to put a stop to the war.”  After a beat, he says, “he’s probably still killing.”

The man brings his hand up to his forehead, then brings it back down again.  “You want me to help you,” he says.

Well, Maes thinks, he’s astute.  “Yes.”

“I’ll do it,” says the man.  “God in heaven guide me.”

*

The man, who Maes comes to know as Samson, researches tirelessly.  Maes thinks, as he watches, that there is nothing quite as impressive as an Alchemist.  He thinks of Roy trying to crack flame alchemy (and burning his notes after, and saying there was something else he needed to do), and he thinks of the Elric brothers flicking through notes, constantly learning.  He thinks that he’d like to see Elicia figure it out one day.  Gracia certainly has an aptitude for household alchemy, fixing small objects, and he has always thought it a shame that she was never able to access the education to make something of it.

No matter – perhaps he’ll be able to sort something out for her when he gets back.  He doesn’t know anyone who deserves it more than her, after all.

As Samson works, Maes finds himself working equally hard, equipped with a pen and a pad of paper.  It’s up to him to try and negotiate and plan, and Maes finds the work comes as naturally to him as it did when he was working with the military.  Even with a stab wound through his shoulder, his handwriting hasn’t deteriorated to the point of illegibility, which is handy as he hasn’t been able to track down a typewriter, and Samson claims they’re very expensive.

His first plan is negotiating with Truth.  Samson had laughed when Maes said his plan was to speak to Truth, but Maes continued to assert that diplomacy is one of his key skills right up until Samson caved, and Maes considers it a case in point. 

However, Maes finds the concept of negotiating with Truth difficult past that first hurdle.  He’s sure it must come down to a matter of exchange, because Truth doesn’t seem to deal in ethics.  In the end, he settles on teaching Truth diplomacy.  He’ll send Maes back in exchange for being able to stop anyone else asking to be sent back, which Maes thinks is fair.

The second is convincing Roy that the government is even more corrupt than the two of them had thought.  He plans to fix that one in place simply by boosting Roy’s ego and suggesting the glory of being the one to expose the government.  That, he thinks, should be enough to convince Roy.

The third and final plan is to convince Scar to stop killing people.  The modus operandi there is to pop along with Samson and let Samson say his part, though he’s hoping Samson will write something down so that Maes can check and refine it. 

He is not expecting a fourth plan to arise, but the need for one comes up nonetheless.  It’s nosiness, as usual, which brings the issue to the forefront.  He spots Samson leaving the tent one day, and decides he’d like to check up on how much progress he’s making with the alchemy.  It isn’t difficult.  Samson doesn’t work to the same time constraints as everyone else, so there’s nobody around to notice Maes sneaking into the tent in the dead of night. 

Maes is both glad and dismayed to find that Samson has left his candle burning.  It’s irresponsible and dangerous, but at least he can read. 

The first items Maes sees are complex equations sprawled out in typical alchemist’s handwriting.  It all looks very in order, and Maes is about to leave when an additional item catches his eye.  There are no equations on it: it’s all handwriting scribbled over pages.  Maes squints at it.

 _Ishvalla, father,_ it says, and then _Abba, Father_.

Maes doesn’t know what Abba means, but it seems important.

_I bore Alchemy because I thought it was Your will for it to be used for good.  I would not use it for evil, Father.  Yet, it comes to light that alchemy is by nature an evil art.  I keep praying, Father, but the answers are not clear.  Will You answer me if I continue to pray?  Am I dabbling in the unnatural?  Father, if I carry on using alchemy, will You pass judgement on me as unworthy?  Am I as bad as the alchemists who burnt down the homes of my people?_

_Father, do You let me continue because it is your will?  Is this a test?  If I carry on, will the answers become clear?  Or do You let me continue because You do not have the power to stop me?_

_Forgive me, Father, for doubting.  I do not mean to doubt You, but I cannot make sense of what it is I am to do.  I wish You would answer my prayers.  You sent our prophets ills, but they came to terms with them when You answered.  I wish You would answer.  I do not know what to believe anymore.  I don’t know whether it is time to stop this._

Maes is no further into the piece before the tent curtains ruffle, and Samson steps inside.  Maes offers him a sheepish smile.  “Thought I’d see how you were getting on,” he says.

Apparently, trying to pass it off doesn’t work, as a look of anger passes across Samson’s face.  “I’d like you to leave,” he says.  “Please.”

Maes considers doing as Samson asks for around a second, which he believes is quite generous.  “I don’t think I can do that,” he says.  “I need to know that you don’t plan to give up.”

“You read my personal notes,” says Samson, very quietly.

“Yes,” says Maes.  “I read them.”  He pauses.  “For what it’s worth, I think it’s natural to doubt.”

Samson is silent for a moment.  “It isn’t worth much.”

Oh, well.  “Do you want to talk it out?” asks Maes. 

“No,” says Samson.

Maes sighs.  “Let me rephrase that,” he says.  “Let’s go and talk it out.” 

For a moment, it looks like Samson is going to ignore him, but then his shoulders slump and he looks up at Maes.  He seems young, in that moment.  “Alright,” he says. 

Maes ducks out of the tent, Samson on his heels.  He looks around, scouting the area for somewhere high and hilly.  It’s the same sort of place he always used to take Roy when Roy needed to angst about the drama of the day.  Eventually, he finds a spot that looks comfortable and sits on the grass, patting the ground next to him to indicate that Samson should do the same. 

“God isn’t a big part of my life,” says Maes.  “I mean – I pray, sometimes, but not to anyone.”

Samson nods.  “I grew up with prayer,” he says.  “I grew up kneeling on Ishvalan flatlands because it was easier to ignore the things around me when I had my head bowed.”  He pauses.  “I love my God,” he says.  “I feel like a traitor.”

Maes sits back, leaning on his hands.  “If you feel like a traitor,” he says, “you must still have faith.”

Samson looks unhappy.  “When I was a child, the father of a boy in my school group fell ill and died, and the boy stopped praying.”

Maes can understand as much.

“I asked him why,” says Samson, “and he told me he believed Ishvalla must either be the cause of suffering or not exist to assuage it.”

Maes gives a slow nod.  “How can a loving God cause suffering, and how can an omnipotent God not be able to stop it?”

Samson rocks forward on the bones of his backside.  “Exactly,” he says.  “I didn’t understand it at the time.  God is good.”

“Do you still believe God is good?”

Samson is silent for a moment.  He looks up at the moon, which is large and full in a sky empty of stars.  “Yes,” he says.  “I believe God is good – I think.”  He pauses.  “I had a kind family and devoted parents.  My brother was a trained soldier: I think he’s using alchemy to prove a point, more than anything.”

“You do?” says Maes, vaguely surprised.

Samson sighs and digs the heels of his palms into the ground slightly.  “He always thought alchemy was evil,” he says.  “Said it wasn’t God’s will.”

Maes nods slowly.  “That sounds familiar,” he says.

Samson looks at Maes and swallows.  “Joshua never stopped loving me,” he says.  “It’s not like they tell it in the newspapers.”

Maes takes in a breath of tepid summer-purgatory air and slowly blows it out through his mouth.  “I don’t have brothers,” he says.  “Three older sisters, but no brothers other than my brother in arms.”

“The Flame Alchemist.”  Samson’s tone fills slightly with trepidation, and some disgust.

Maes glances away guiltily.  “Sometimes when Roy was researching, it was like he was possessed.  The alchemy he would create was beautiful, but he wouldn’t eat or sleep unless I physically forced him, sometimes.”

“I thought alchemy was the first step to knowing God, at one time,” says Samson.

Maes swallows.  “It was like he was possessed by something unnatural when he was researching.  He didn’t care if he ended up with burns, or if he was in tears by the end of the day from frustration.  He had to carry on, even if it cost him his health.”

“It scared you,” says Samson.  “It scared Joshua, I know that.”

Maes nods.  “I think he’s still scared of it.  He doesn’t have the eyes of a natural-born killer.”

“No,” Samson agrees.  “He doesn’t.”  After a moment, he speaks again.  “Neither do you.”

Maes blinks hard, then looks Samson in the eyes.  “You’ve never killed,” he says.  “I’d like to make sure you never have to.”

Samson smiles, thin-lipped but genuine.  “That won’t be down to you,” he says, “but I appreciate the sentiment.”  He pauses for a moment.  “If we get back to Amestris, I will meet the Flame Alchemist, under controlled conditions.”

“That’s good,” says Maes.  “He wants to help fix things, and I’ve been working on my thesis of secularity – I think you’d be a powerful help in guiding Roy to start putting things right.”

Almost musingly, Samson gives a soft nod.  “I’d like to read your thesis one day,” he says.  He takes a moment.  “So, why are you in this?” he asks.  “Why do you want to get back so badly?”

“I’ve got a daughter,” says Maes.  “She’s three, big green eyes – she looks just like my wife.”

“A daughter, huh?” says Samson.  “She sounds cute.”

“She’s more than that,” says Maes.  “The moment she was born, I looked at her and I knew I had to make things right for her – and it isn’t that I don’t think she’ll be able to keep herself safe: she will, she’s already twice as fierce as some of the soldiers I know but,” he pauses and swallows, finding that suddenly, a wetness in his eyes necessitates taking his glasses off and resting the heel of his hand against his cheekbone.  “I want her to be fierce with international business partners or bad doctors or corrupt prosecuting attorneys, not with a government that only favours her because her daddy’s a Major.”

“So, you’re in this to protect?” says Samson.  “Me too.”  He looks at Maes.   “I wasn’t the one who lost my arm, at first.  It was Joshua.”

Maes’s eyes widen.  “You transmuted your own arm onto your brother to stop him from bleeding to death?” he says.

“You’re sharp,” says Samson.  “I don’t regret it, even with my brother’s track record.”

Maes nods against a fullness in his throat.  “I can understand that.”  He takes a deep breath.  “There are two boys back home, Ed and Al, who’d do the same for each other.”  He puts his glasses back on and smiles.  “They’re really amazing kids.”

Samson leans back on the grass.  “It sounds like you’re as concerned about them as you are your daughter.”

“Parenting bug,” says Maes.  “You’ll get it one day.  I think even Roy’s beginning to get it.”

They fall into a comfortable silence, staring at the moon.  It’s gentle and soft, and almost reminds Maes of nights spent sneaking out to the nearby quarry with Roy and Heathcliff just to contemplate the future.  He supposes it’s time to carve out a place for Samson at the family table, if he wants to join.  There’s always plenty of food to go around, and Gracia is a wizard at making it last, always reassuring Maes that if it comes to it, and he adopts every child in Amestris, she’ll just slice the bread more thinly.

“You should publish it,” says Maes.

“What?”

“The stuff you’ve told me – once we’re back, you should publish it.”

Samson looks contemplative for a moment.  “Maybe I will,” he says.

*

_Do I dare disturb the universe?_

*

 

After that, Samson dives back into work, often asking Maes to help him scribble out equations and check for inconsistencies in his logic. 

“I’m not an alchemist,” Maes points out one day.

Samson shrugs.  “Maybe not,” he says, “but it’s never too late to learn.”

It isn’t long before Samson’s tent is strewn with loose sheets of paper and spilt ink, and Maes finds himself going in there of his own accord just to carry out a few cursory health and safety checks in the hope that Samson won’t one day break his neck on a loose sheet of paper that just says ‘1’ on it.  He’s beginning to remember his previous assessment of alchemists as possessed men, and is almost sure that he’s right.  There is nothing quite like an alchemist at work, and Samson’s mental dexterity amazes him in a way that Roy’s didn’t.  Roy, he thinks, was a man who liked to go into things as deeply as he could, whilst Samson seems happy to lightly dust over the parts he deems irrelevant, going back to them later as and when he deems it appropriate.

When Maes isn’t helping Samson, he’s exploring purgatory.  Despite everything, it has its better parts, and Maes finds it enlightening to see how people have slipped into distinct roles.   He finds that he makes a good friend of the girl who sells groceries.  She’s friendly, with a kind smile that wrinkles her eyes.  She has a niece back in the other world, he discovers, who lives with her grandmother owing to a considerable amount of misfortune that had befallen the family.  He supposes the girl dying was the icing on the cake for them, and wonders if things are getting better.

At one point, he starts asking around for Trisha Elric, and is relieved when an older man tells him that she had been there for a whole half hour and then passed straight to heaven.  The Elric boys deserve to know that their mother got a good deal in the afterlife.  A moment after the thought, he thinks the better of telling them.  Heaven might be a supposed better place, but Maes can’t think of a better place for Trisha than with her little boys, watching them grow up. 

The days carry on like that, a warped mirror image of rural life, until one day, Samson walks up to him, rubbing his neck with his one hand.  “I finished the calculations,” he says.

Maes feels his heart leap.  “That’s great!” he says.   “There are some people I’d like to say goodbye to first, but then I’m good to go!”

Samson stays silent.

“What is it?”

Samson glances away from Maes.  “I can’t perform the transmutation,” he says.  “I only have one arm.”

There’s a beat.  “Ah,” says Maes.

“You’re going to have to learn alchemy.”

“ _What_?”

Samson sighs and folds his arms.  “Do you want to get back or not?”

Maes blinks, stunned.  “Of course I do,” he says.  “But I’m not an alchemist.  I almost failed out of the Academy because my maths wasn’t good enough.  How am I meant to learn alchemy?”

“You’ll have a teacher,” says Samson.  “It’s not like I didn’t study it.”

Maes can’t quite protest.

*

_There will be time to murder and create._

*

Maes finds quickly that despite his self-proclaimed ineptitude, Samson is a patient teacher.  He only ever snaps at Maes when Maes snaps at empty pieces of paper, and Maes seldom finds himself snapping at Samson.

“I think it’s time,” says Samson.  “Try your first transmutation – go on.”

Maes glances nervously up at him, but it isn’t like the desk leg isn’t broken.  He sketches out the circle, checking over and over for any errors. 

“It looks fine,” says Samson. 

Maes nods.  Then, putting his hands together, tries to feel the energy flowing through his body.  That’s the activation energy, he reminds himself.  Energy through his body, filtered into his hands.  He slams them to the ground.  Energy from his hands filtered into the ground, just enough to thin the wood so that it smooths over the broken wood of the desk leg, setting it straight.

He screws his eyes shut, tries to feel the energy, and then sits back on his feet.  He’s panting.  He can understand why Roy liked this so much.

“Nice work!” says Samson.  “We won’t have to worry about that desk leg for a while, now.”

Maes opens his eyes.  _He did it!_ There are clear transmutation marks on the desk leg, but still – he’s done it!  He looks up at Samson, hoping his exhilaration isn’t colouring his eyes the same they would colour a crazed man. 

“Good job,” says Samson with a genuine smile.  “Get some rest, now.”

*

Maes starts studying often, after that, in a way that he hasn’t studied since he was in the academy.  It’s tough, he thinks, but he must concede that there are sessions in which he’s fixed on the work and feels his brain whirr away like a new motorcar’s engine.  Those sessions are the ones that feel the best.

He’s halfway through one of those sessions when Samson enters the tent with a dead lizard in his hand.  Maes blinks.

“Is there a reason you’ve brought a lizard in?” he says.

Samson smirks.  “We’re going to start focusing on life alchemy,” he says.  “We’ll need it to understand how to get back.”

“Right,” says Maes.  He pauses.  “You’re not going to make me learn how to make chimeras, are you?”

Samson’s eyes widen.  “What?” he says.  “No, of course I’m not – why would I do that?”

“Bad memories,” says Maes.  “Thanks for the reassurance.”

Samson eyes him with some trepidation, but lays the lizard out on the table before him.  “No alchemy yet,” he says.  “We’re going to dissect the lizard.”

Maes makes a face.  “Gross,” he says.

“Yes,” agrees Samson, “but it’s necessary.  Let’s get started.”

Maes isn’t sure how he feels about the hour spent cutting into the lizard and removing its organs.  On one hand, he finds himself quite interested in the ways that lizards are like humans.  On the other hand, it’s gross, and Maes sort of feels like he’s desecrating a body.

After they’re done, Samson stands up straight, cracking his back, and gathers the remnants of the lizard in a handkerchief.  “Well done,” he tells Maes.  “Now, come outside.”

Once outside, Samson sets the lizard on the dry, grainy ground.  “I need you to set a fire for me,” he says.

Maes does as he’s asked, wishing that Roy was here to do it for him but basking in the way the fire crackles and illuminates his face when he’s done in a way that he’s sure he wouldn’t feel without the manual effort required of him.  Samson kneels, holding the lizard’s handkerchief, and sets it gently on the fire.  The linen catches alight almost immediately, and Maes’s eyes widen when he realises how close to the fire Samson is.  He looks so fixated, though, that Maes supresses the urge to pull him back.

Then, Samson starts praying.  His tongue seems to slide around the words like he’s picking a lock.  It’s a deep understanding not only of the consequences, but of the process.  Maes finds he’s transfixed on the way Samson articulates the words.

Before it seems finished, Samson stands wordlessly and heads into the tent.  He emerges with the water-bucket, which he throws on the fire.  It sizzles as it goes out, smoke and steam pouring upwards.  Then, Samson takes the burnt-up linen, barely wincing as he touches what is undoubtedly very hot indeed.  He shakes it, and the whole thing disintegrates, the lizard’s ashes floating away on the wind.  Maes looks away, just to avoid worsening the harsh lump in his throat.

Samson nods at him, and ushers him back inside.

“Thank you,” says Maes, when they’re both sitting on their beds.  “I’m glad it got a send-off.”

“Yes,” says Samson.  “Thank you for watching.”

After a moment’s pause, Maes decides to address Samson’s prayer.  “I watched you pray,” he says.  “You looked like you savoured the process as much as the consequences.”

Samson sits back and smiles.  “Perhaps I did,” he says. 

There’s a long stretch of comfortable silence, a phenomenon Maes has never quite understood.  He decides he rather likes it, at least this time.  It feels like he could speak, and Samson wouldn’t mind, which he appreciates.  He likes having room to speak – it’s one of the reasons why he views Gracia as a good match. 

In the end, it’s Samson who speaks first.  He blows out the candles, then Maes hears him shuffling into bed in the darkness.  “Sleep well,” says Samson.  “Think about what interested you in my prayer.”

*

After the lizard and the prayer, things seem much easier, though Maes can’t quite fathom why.  Soon enough, Samson is bringing him bananas and cows so that he can examine their cell structure, and they hold the same memorial they held for the lizard for every animal they examine.  Maes is glad for it.  It feels like closure.

Then, in what becomes a sort of ritual, Samson watches Maes closely as Maes draws diagrams of the cell structure, usually on Samson’s instruction.  It’s soothing to understand something like that, Maes thinks.  Sometimes, when Maes has done particularly well, Samson lets him colour in the diagrams.  Then, when he realises that the colour helps Maes remember the structure, he lets Maes do it every time he draws a diagram. 

It doesn’t feel like very long at all before Samson walks inside with a large, anaemic looking dog.  Maes looks on it sadly.

“It’s alright,” says Samson.  “We aren’t going to hurt it.”

Maes stares at it, unsure of what else he could possibly do to it.

“You’re ready to cure illness with alchemy,” Samson says.

*

_Like a patient etherised on a table._

*

Maes feels an unusual feeling creep up his chest.  “What happens if I do it wrong?” he asks. 

Samson looks Maes in the eye.  “You won’t,” he says.  “Trust me, I’ve watched you work.  You can do this.”

Samson explains the structure of the illness, what it’s doing to the dog’s cells.  Maes draws it out, just to help him remember what to do.  He draws out a diagram of what should happen in the dog’s cells, too.  Process _and_ consequences. 

Finally, once he’s sure, he draws out a transmutation circle, Samson watching him with careful eyes.  Maes looks towards the dog, then at his small piece of paper.

“Let’s go outside,” he says, picking up a large stick.

Samson leads the dog outside, scratching at its neck as he goes.  It looks like comfort, and it makes Maes feel better.  Maes draws an enlarged version of the transmutation circle and – careful not to displace his markings – lifts the dog onto it.

He glances nervously at Samson, who gives him an encouraging nod.  “Everything is in place,” he says. 

So Maes takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and puts his hands together.  Activation energy.  He thumps them onto the ground, letting the energy flow from him to the area around the dog.  Feeling a sense of completion – something Samson has told him not to ignore – he takes his hands off the ground.  The dog is still.

Maes looks towards Samson, who seems frozen, and then back at the dog.  He swallows, feeling a mixture of guilt and disappointment surge in his stomach.  He feels sick.  Samson, apparently unfrozen, steps forward and squeezes Maes’s shoulder.

“You didn’t go wrong,” says Samson.  “I don’t understand.”

Maes doesn’t either, until a moment later.

The dog snorts in a breath, then snorts it out again.  Maes feels his heart spring to life.  He hasn’t failed!  A second after, the dog stands and barks.  Maes grins at it.

“You scared me,” he tells it.  “I thought I’d killed you.”

The dog barks again, then runs off.

Behind him, Samson lets out a deep breath, then helps Maes up.  “I thought we’d lost all your confidence for a moment,” he tells Maes.

Maes gives a breathy laugh.  “Me too,” he says, exhilarated.  “That felt good.”

“The dog, unlike the people here, didn’t die on earth,” says Samson.  “It’s a mechanism, I think, so that people can eat if they need to kill animals.”

Maes swallows.  “What happens to animals who die on earth?”

“I don’t know,” says Samson.  “Why do you ask?”

Maes breathes out shakily.  “There was a little girl in Amestris whose father made talking chimeras.  We all thought he was a genius, and he was looking after a little girl alone at the same time.”  Maes clenches his hands to stop them from shaking.  “He made one two years before he made the second.  The first was a miserable, wretched creature, but none of us realised because we were caught up in how amazing the achievement was.”  He stretches out his hands.  “ _God_ ,” he says.  “It wouldn’t eat, it told us outright that it wanted to die.”

“Did it?” asked Samson. 

Maes was silent for a moment.  “It starved itself to death.”  He swallows.  “We gave the man a State Alchemist’s qualification.”

Samson doesn’t speak, just looks at Maes until he continues.

“He was under pressure the next year – his research hadn’t been consistent, and he wouldn’t go out into the field.”  Maes sighs.  “He was under a lot of pressure to perform: a single dad at risk of losing his means of funding.”

“It must have been difficult for them,” says Samson. 

Maes releases a long, deep breath.  “I thought he’d have done anything for his little girl,” he says.  “We sent two young alchemists to use his library – just kids, but two really incredible boys.  Equally as smart as each other, but the older one was,” Maes bites his lip.  “ _Is_ reckless and nosy.”  He rubs his temples.  “I wish I’d known that Tucker was – before I agreed to let Roy send them there.”

“Did he hurt them?” asks Samson with what sounds like trepidation.

“No,” says Maes, and then: “yes – sort of.” 

Samson presses his lips together.  “You don’t need to talk about it if it’s too much.”

“No,” says Maes.  “I need to.  I can’t get so consumed that I lose sight of things.”

Samson nods and lets Maes continue, saying nothing.  Still, despite the silence, Maes feels Samson urging him on, can almost hear hums of affirmation and sympathy.

“He made another chimera,” says Maes.  “It was part dog, and it _looked_ dog, but it could speak like the last one.”  He pauses.  “I never met it.”

He thinks back to Ed’s eyes after that night.  He tries not to think any more.

“The boys – they, um – found Tucker and the chimera in Tucker’s lab.”  He breathes.  “I think Ed – the older one – had already figured some of it out, but Al is younger, and I can’t _imagine_ …”  He trails off, reflexively reaches out to the floor to steady himself.  “From what I hear, Ed realised almost straight away.  They say the dog called him ‘Big brother Edward’, and he started punching Tucker, kicking him, the works.”

Samson’s eyes widen.  “His own daughter.”

Maes feels sick.  “Yes.”  There’s a long pause before Maes can speak again.  “Your brother must be a good man,” he says.

“How do you know?”

“He killed both.  Got Tucker off the earth and kept Nina from military labs.”  Maes remembers the day they recovered the bodies as the only time he had not felt remorse over another man’s death.

Samson is silent for a long moment.  “I am glad the little girl didn’t suffer,” he says.

*

If Maes is right – and he can never be sure, these days – it’s around a month later that Samson finally deems him ready.  Maes swallows a lot, asks Samson if he’s sure until he’s sure Samson is going to hit him, and finally concedes.

*

_And time yet for a hundred indecisions,  
And for a hundred visions and revisions._

*

For the culmination of months of preparation, Maes feels almost swept away by how quick it all is.  There’s the transmutation circle, checking the transmutation circle, enlarging the transmutation circle, checking it again, and then glancing up to Samson for reassurance.  In all, it only takes about an hour.  Maes has spent longer typing up documents.

Still, two hours from the word _Go_ , and Samson and Maes are both standing over a transmutation circle.

“It looks good,” says Samson.  “You’re handy with a piece of chalk.”

Maes snorts.  “Good teaching,” he says, which seems to make Samson smile.  “Are you ready to go?” He feels anxiety coil in the pit of his stomach as he asks the question, but he can’t think that there is any more to do: the circle is drawn, he’s checked it, rechecked it and redrawn it. 

“Ready,” says Samson.

Maes glances around, unsure of what to do or say.  “On the count of three, then,” he says at last.

“One,” he takes a deep breath, then clamps his hands together.  He squeezes his eyes closed.

“Two.”  Feels the energy surge around his body, up and down, in and out.  _Two and a half_.

 _Two-and-three-quarters_.

“Maes!”

“Three!”

Maes slams his hands to the ground.  Energy is surging around him now.  It’s not bright and golden.  It’s not deep blue and intense.  It’s white-blue.  He’s never felt like this before, not even during the first transmutations.  Energy is thumping in his chest, right where his heart usually is, and he can’t tell if it’s hollow or full.  It wakes him up, brings him to life like being slapped awake by the cold when he steps outside during winter. 

Gracia, bringing him his scarf and scolding him.

Roy pelting a snowball at the back of his head.

Elicia falling asleep in his arms.

The Elric boys, sitting together and loving each other so unconditionally, so unlike any siblings Maes has ever seen. 

He breathes in.  Pure energy fills his lungs.  He can feel every alveolus, every bronchial tube.  He can feel _everything_.  His heart has ventricles, he knew that theory, he knew that by dissection, and now he _knows_.  He has ventricles and valves.  The valves close, blood flows in. 

He breathes out, and with him comes his soul.  Or his body.  He isn’t sure.  He breathes in, and he sees and feels blood pumping around his body simultaneously.

He throws his head back and laughs.  Cold, blue air pumps out of his body.  He is not human.  There is no such thing as human.  He is a star.  He is the centre of the earth, a gathering of magma from below, from below.  He is an object traversing the universe, propelled away, away, away by forces not under his control yet forces he is undoubtedly a part of.

“ _And I have known them all already_ ,” he booms and whispers.  He laughs again, giddy and dizzy.

*

_Should I, after cakes and tea and ices,  
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?_

*

Maes breathes again and it feels like drowning and choking.  His heart is thumping.  He wonders if he is a God.

‘We’re not,’ comes a voice.

“What?”

‘We’re not a God.”

*

_I should have been a pair of claws  
Scuttling across a floor of silent seas._

*

Maes looks down at his hands.  They are no longer smooth, with callouses on his fingers.  They retain the same bony shape, but they’re rougher and more worn.  He stretches them out in front of him.  He has two arms, he has two legs.  He’s sure they are not all his.  His arm has markings on it, dark like a port wine birth mark and terribly distinguished.  He jolts.

“What the _hell_?”

He feels something pull him back, and then he is in an odd limbo, and he thinks how if Roy was here he’d be talking about the physical and metaphysical realms, and Maes would tell him to shut up.  He wishes he’d listened now.

“There was a mistake in the circle,” something says.  After a pause, it adds: “it’s me, Samson.”

“What mistake?” says Maes.  “We double-checked.”

“I tried to warn you,” says Samson.

Maes thinks back to that urgent ‘Maes’ he had heard less than a second before slamming his hands to the ground.  “You did,” he agrees.  After a moment, he adds: “ _God_ ,” just to make sure Samson knows how confused he is.

“I don’t think alchemy works here,” says Samson.  “I did try.”

Maes wrinkles his (their) forehead.  “When did you try?”

“You were still a bit out of it,” Samson says.  “You got a bit caught up in the transmutation.”

Maes can’t deny that.  “I guess I did,” he says.  “What do we do now?”

“I guess we wait for that Truth you were telling me about.”

Maes hums.  He supposes Samson is right – it’s not like they can summon Truth at will.  Even so, he feels like he should be doing something.  “In the meantime, maybe we should figure out when either of us comes out.”

“You’re probably right,” says Samson.

There’s a brief pause as either of them realises that they don’t quite know when to come out.

“Well, obviously in Ishval you should be at the head, and I should be at the head around my family,” says Maes.  He stops for a second.  “Sorry if you weren’t ready to be a dad, but I’m not leaving my little girl.”

“I’m not asking you to,” says Samson.  “I’d love to meet her.”

“That can be arranged,” says Maes.  “Now, we need to figure out what to do about the diplomatic situations – like when Truth shows up.”

They fall into another silence.  It’s longer, this time, and Maes has scarcely begun to speak when a voice booms out around them.

“So,” it says.  “You tried to defy me.”

“That’s him,” whispers Maes.

There’s a moment of wide-eyed panic.  “You go up front,” says Samson.  “You’re the one with the plan.”

*

_And I have seen the eternal footman hold my coat and snicker,  
And in short, I was afraid._

*

Up front, and everything seeming much less like limbo, Maes squares up with Truth, who is looking particularly formless today.  “Yes,” says Maes.  “And succeeded, it seems.”

“Don’t presume to be the one with the power,” says Truth.  “I choose what happens to you now.”

“Do I get a say?” asks Maes.

“No,” says Truth.  “You had a say.  You could have stayed in Purgatory until you passed on, but you interfered.”  It adds an upwards inflection to ‘interfered’, as if the situation is funnier to him than it is concerning.

“I didn’t want to stay in Purgatory,” says Maes.  “I have a family.”

Truth – in so far as it can – looks Maes in the eye.  “So does everyone else.  Your family still has a family.”

“I want to be with them.”

Truth smiles, almost smugly.  “I call that greed,” it says.

“I call it loyalty.”

“Well,” says Truth.  “It comes with a price, which you _and_ the Ishvalan will have to pay.”

“What price?” asks Maes. 

“Your souls will not pass on to any place,” it says.  “They’ll just dissolve, and they’ll do it soon.”

Maes feels anger surge in the pit of his stomach.  “That isn’t fair!” he cries. 

“You were given the fair option,” says Truth.  “You chose not to take it.”

Maes clenches his fists.  Samson tries to knock at the back of his mind.  “Not now,” he whispers.  “I can deal with this.”

“It’s not fair to Samson,” says Maes.  “He had nothing to do with this – I coerced him into it!”

Truth looks away dismissively.  “He chose to join you.”

Chest, which Maes is vaguely aware doesn’t exist, pumping, Maes lunges towards Truth.  Half a metre away, he stops.  “Let me go, Samson,” he grits out.

“No,” Samson’s voice resonates.  “This is my body too, and I don’t plan to be implicated in your violence.”

When Maes takes another step forward, he feels Samson shoving against his focus.  “This wasn’t the deal,” says Maes.

“We didn’t strike a deal,” says Samson.  “I’m striking a deal now: whenever you’re about to do something stupid, I take over.”

A moment later, Maes finds himself back in limbo, and it’s as if he’s watching truth through a window. 

“Ah,” says Truth.  “The Ishvalan has emerged.  I was wondering if I would be able to speak with you.”

“I’d like to strike a bargain,” says Samson.

“I don’t negotiate,” says Truth.

“You do,” says Samson.  “Maes told me about the Elric boys.  You negotiated with them.”

Apparently unsatisfied, Truth closes its mouth and cocks its head to the side.  “Let’s say I did negotiate,” says Truth. “What’s your price?”

Samson stands up straight, and Maes finds himself feeling a strange sort of queasy as his line of sight alters, tipping upwards.  “I go back to purgatory.  You send me to the most barren location and you let me starve.  Maes stays here.”

“That isn’t enough,” says Truth immediately.

“I’m not going to let Maes dissolve into nothing,” says Samson.  “He’s been working for months – is his work not equivalent exchange for a chance to work this out?”

“No,” says Truth.  “It isn’t.  If he wants to stay, I’ll need something else.”  It pauses.  “Perhaps the body.”

“Not a chance,” says Samson immediately.  “There’s nothing to bind the soul to.  It would dissolve by itself.”

Truth narrows its eyes.  “You’re very good,” it says.  “Well, what would you propose?”

Samson takes a deep breath.  “Dissolve my soul.  Send Maes to heaven.”

“Tempting,” says Truth.

Maes disagrees.  Struggling, he forces his way to the surface.  Everything is clearer up at the surface.  “Not tempting,” he says to truth.  “I’m not letting you dissolve Samson’s soul.”

“You two really are frustrating,” says Truth.  “If you won’t let me dissolve _his_ soul, and he won’t let me dissolve yours, what do you propose I do.”

“Send him to Purgatory,” says Maes.  “Leave me here.”

“I already said that isn’t enough.”

“I’m not finished.  You leave me here, but you put a time constraint on it.  If I get out within the time, I win.  If I don’t, I lose, and you get to take my soul.”

Truth is silent for a moment.  “Fun,” it says.

“One more thing,” says Maes.  “You send Samson to heaven.  That’s equivalent exchange.”

“Convince me,” says Truth.

Maes crosses his arms, then unravels them and splays his hands towards Truth.  “These aren’t my hands,” he says.  “These are his.  They’re the hands that taught me alchemy, and they’re the hands that spent years _suffering_ under my country’s regime.  He didn’t have to help me.”

“No,” says Truth.  “I said as much earlier.”  It glances upwards.  “You’re using my own words to negotiate with me.”

“What’s your answer?”

“I won’t send him to heaven,” says Truth, “but I will give him a chance in a populated part of Purgatory. Let him up.”

Maes sinks back.  He supposes that’s enough. 

From the back, Maes watches Samson’s soul materialise.  It looks soft.  It has soft eyes in the same way as Samson.  Samson looks back at him and nods, then looks towards Truth.  “I’d like a moment to pray, please,” he says.

Truth is silent.  Maes watches Samson kneel to the floor.  He murmurs a prayer Maes doesn’t recognise.  The words sound sweet on his tongue.  It’s like he tastes them before he says them.  He’s paying attention to the process, of course, but it doesn’t feel well-oiled like it did when he was praying for the lizard’s passage.  Every few moments, Samson swallows, breathes, and then continues, sounding surer than he had in the moments preceding. 

He finishes and stands.  He glances at Truth, then walks towards Maes.  “I trust you,” he whispers.  He pulls Maes into a hug.  “I’ll see you in Heaven,” he says. 

Maes lets his eyes fall closed, and feels a lone, warm tear slide towards his chin.  “I’ll see you in Heaven,” he replies. 

Maes holds on for a moment longer.  “You’ll be in Heaven by the time I get back?”

“Of course, I will,” says Samson.  “You don’t have to worry about me anymore.” 

Maes opens his eyes and studies the fabric on Samson’s shoulders.  When he can’t cling on for any longer, he pulls away.  He clears his throat.  “I’ll see you in Heaven, then,” says Maes.  “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” says Samson. 

Truth stands aside.  There’s a long walk towards a door.  A long way to watch Samson walking away.

Samson stands still for a moment, and then begins to walk.  He walks for a long time, slow and broad.  Measured steps.  Halfway towards the door, he stops and looks back.  Maes tries to catch his eye, but he’s fixed on Truth, scrutinising it.  After a moment, Samson starts walking again, then turns assuredly to the left.  Another door appears. 

Maes takes a deep breath. 

Samson takes long strides towards the door.  He stops just outside, gives Maes a two-fingered navy salute, and then steps through.

*

 _If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,_  
And turning towards the window, should say:  
“That is not it at all,  
That is not what I meant at all.”

*

Maes wanders aimlessly for two days, half floating, half nothing.  He thinks to himself how it would be so much easier if he knew anything about the place, but not everyone who dies goes through the door, and nobody comes back.  He’s still in the merged body.  He supposes that must have been permanent.  He’s getting used to it.  Samson had better legs than him, he must admit, and that’s a change he doesn’t begrudge.  He’s also pleased to have been able to keep both of his arms.  It makes life easier, he’s learned in 29 years of having them.  Besides, it’s not like there’s an automail mechanic here.  He thinks of Winry and hopes there never is.

*

_(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)_

*

Still, there are downsides to the new body.  He’s worried he’ll come home and Elicia won’t recognise him – a possibility he had come to terms with in his old body, but it seems so much more real in his new one.  And even then – when his body had belonged to him and only him, he was so sure that his marriage to Gracia had been built on trust and solidarity, and not looks – but in this new body, he can’t help but to worry that he had been wrong.  All this, not to mention the discrimination a man with dusky red eyes and salt-and-pepper hair would face in Amestris, make Maes increasingly worried about what will happen if he _does_ make it home.

*

_(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)_

*

And there’s the tattoo.  He wonders how he’ll speak to Scar, with Samson’s tattoo adorning his arm in port-wine stains.  He wonders if it’s too frank to walk straight up to Scar and say Samson’s given both of his arms away, now.  He rather thinks that sort of statement would upset Scar, much as it would probably upset Roy if Maes came back and spoke to him about body snatchers. 

Then, after all of this, he wonders how likely it is that he’ll make it home at all, and finds he needs to take a seat.  Seats, of course, are figurative now.  Maes _can_ sit down, but it doesn’t quite do anything to soothe his light-headedness, because he knows that really, it isn’t coming from his head at all.

He closes his eyes, just so he doesn’t have to see the blankness around him and remember that there’s every chance he’s assigning his soul to the same fate.  He thinks about asking Truth what happens when a soul is destroyed before swiftly deciding that if Truth gives an answer at all, he doesn’t want to know.

Perhaps it is because he has his eyes closed that he misses the smooth opening of the door, right up until he hears a confused “hello?”

His eyes shoot open, wide and far, far too hopeful.  “ _Roy_?”

There’s a high, surprised laugh, like someone’s been kicked in the back by God’s feet.  “ _Maes_?”

Maes blinks, utterly baffled.  “How can you tell it’s me.”

“ _Please_ ,” says Roy.  “I’ve known you long enough – not that I don’t have questions – is that the same tattoo Scar has?  Why is it red?”

Maes lets all his breath escape him in a long, exhilarated rush of air.  “Long story,” says Maes.  “The question I need to ask you is _why are you here_?  You didn’t die, did you?”

“Not quite,” says Roy.  He gestures at his eyes.  “I think I’m going to lose these, though,” he says grimly.  

Maes feels his mouth fall shut, and he fixes Roy with a disappointed look.  “You did something stupid, didn’t you, Roy?”  All of Maes’s work to keep Roy sane, and it all comes out to naught, it seems.  Maes had thought they were beyond this. 

“No,” says Roy quickly, and when Maes gives him a look he’s sure is sad and disbelieving, adds onto it: “ _honestly_ , Maes.  There’s a time I would have, but it wasn’t me – I was forced.”  Roy pauses, and the silence is palpable.  Maes waits for Roy to speak.  He thinks that must be the better option than interrupting.  “Fuhrer Bradley is a Homunculus,” he says.

“I know,” says Hughes.  “That’s what I was trying to tell you the night I died: and Amestris is one big transmutation circle.”

Roy smiles.  “We figured that out in the end – or a little Xingese girl did.  You’d have adopted her on the spot, Maes, she’s all thinly veiled vulnerability with the same brand of death wish as the Elric brothers have.  She saved Riza’s life.”  He pauses again.  “That’s not even the most surprising thing.  _Selim_ Bradley is a homunculus.”

Maes feels his eyes widen.  _Selim Bradley_?  The Fuhrer’s little boy?  He pushes it out of his mind.  “Before any of that,” he says, “I need to know that you were being honest with me,” he says.  “You didn’t commit human transmutation?”

Roy sighs.  “Of course not,” he says.   “I wouldn’t.”  He pauses and then holds his hands out.  They have round, red holes in them, but they don’t seem to be bleeding.  “These are from where Bradley – Wrath – pinned me down inside the circle so that Selim could do his weird – shadow thing.”

Maes supposes that must be enough to prove it.  Roy doesn’t make a habit of going around with large wounds in his hands like some mythic figure from one of the old religions.  “Alright,” he says.  He pauses for a second.  “I’m sorry – you know I had to check.”

*

_When I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,  
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall._

*

“I know,” says Roy, and then: “I don’t think I have long here, and now that you’re done grilling _me_ , I have questions for you.”

“Go on, then,” says Maes, resigned.  “Shoot.”

Roy crosses his arms, looking decidedly comical with his messy black hair and baby face.  Maes wonders if people will write reviews about that baby face when Roy is leading Amestris.  “Why haven’t you passed on,” he says.  “You’ve been dead for almost a year.”

“I don’t want to pass on,” says Maes stubbornly.  “I have a family and friends, not to mention your sorry ass to take care of.”

Roy’s face falls.  “ _Maes_ ,” he says.  “It has to work both ways.  You can’t worry about me committing human transmutation when you’re doing it yourself.  It can’t work like that.”

“I have a family,” repeats Maes.  Roy is part of that family – surely, he must understand? 

Roy sighs.  “You _still_ have a family,” he says.  “They still love you – all of them.” 

“Why shouldn’t I go back, then?” says Maes.  He knows he’s growing defensive, but he can’t bring himself to care – not much. 

Roy sighs and takes Maes’ face in his own, firmly, like Maes used to do when Roy was still sitting hunched over his desk, books strewn out before him, in the wee hours of the morning.  “What was the price for you to be out here, Maes?”

Maes doesn’t speak.

“Maes,” says Roy.  “What was the price?”

Maes stares resolutely past Roy.  “My soul will disintegrate if I don’t go back.”

Roy sighs, angry and tearful, and pulls Maes into a hug.  He pulls back after a moment, and Maes watches him dart his eyes around the room.  “Hey,” he shouts.  “Hey, Truth!”

After a moment, and much to Maes’s surprise, Truth materialises.  “It’s the fifth sacrifice,” it says amiably.  “Why did you call for me, fifth sacrifice?”

Roy straightens up to his full height, and if Maes wasn’t worried he was about to do something apocalyptically stupid, he would tease Roy about the fact that he’s still a head shorter than Maes.  “Let him pass on,” he says.  “No matter many days he promised, he hasn’t lived them out just yet, so let him pass on without destroying his soul.”

Truth looks straight at Roy.  “We struck a bargain.”

Roy sets his mouth into a thin straight line.  “Did you negotiate terms for that bargain?” he asks.

Truth begins to open its mouth, looking profoundly bewildered, but Roy carries on speaking before it can interrupt.  “I take it you didn’t, so I’m negotiating the terms: if Maes doesn’t carry out the whole three days before you destroy his soul, you let him pass on.”

There’s a moment of silence.  Truth looks unhappy, but impressed.  “You’re a lot like that Elric kid,” it says.  After a pregnant pause, it looks at Roy.  “Fine,” it says.  “I’ll be back soon, unless you call me for his soul.” 

Roy nods. 

Maes swings around.  “Roy,” he says.  “We could avoid this, if you let me go back.”

Roy shakes his head.  “No chance,” he says. 

“But-,”

“No,” says Roy.  “Have you considered that all that’s going to happen if you come back is that you’ll die straight away?” 

Maes is silent.

“You don’t have a body on the other side, Maes.  You’re half-decomposed by now.”

Maes blinks.  He hadn’t considered that at all.  He thinks of his real body, skin wearing away under the ground to expose a weak skeleton.  “I’m – I’m decomposing,” he says quietly.

“Yes,” says Roy.  “You are.”  He scrubs a hand over his face.  “Maes, I don’t want to see you die again, but I’d rather see you cross over than spend a last few minutes in excruciating pain.”

Maes is silent for a second.  “Me too,” he says.  “But – Roy – everyone on earth – how are they?”

“Let’s sit,” says Roy.

Maes follows him to sit down.  They sit in an amicable silence for a few moments, before Roy reaches into his inside pocket.

“Someone had to take over from you,” he says.  “I’ve got pictures.”

Maes grins.  “Show me,” he says.  “I want to see them.”

Roy does.

The first picture captures Gracia and Elicia, Elicia balanced comfortably on Gracia’s hip.  They’re in the park, under an old chestnut tree he used to walk past with Elicia, just to see her face light up when she found a conker.  Gracia’s in a long skirt and a cream blouse, and Elicia is in one of her party dresses.  They’re both smiling, Elicia’s hands held out towards the camera.

The next photo is a navy blue and leafy green blur.

After that, there’s a photo of Roy, still blurry, but less so than the last one.  He’s standing up very straight amidst all the greenery, with a vague smile crossing his face.  It would almost be sweet, if he wasn’t blinking.    

The next picture sees breathless flashes of gold and steel.  It’s Ed and Al, hard at work over a desk in the library, barely looking aware of the fact that someone’s taking a photo.  It’s sweet.  It captures them nicely.

There’s Ed and Winry after that, in a rare moment of quiet, where Winry is oiling Ed’s arm with a smile on her face.  She looks miles away.  Maes doesn’t miss the fond, friendly look Ed has on his face as he looks down at her. 

Then, there’s the three of them, standing in a row.  Al is in the middle, flexing his arm in a way so reminiscent of Armstrong that Maes isn’t sure Armstrong himself didn’t pose it.  On either side of him, Ed and Winry are captured erupting into an argument, classic expressions of barely-real frustration painted over their faces. 

After that, it’s Winry reading to Elicia, who looks comfortably balanced on her knee.  Maes squints at the book cover and breaks into a smile.  Of course, Elicia would ask for that one.   Maes is sure he has it memorised.  They look like sisters, sitting there, and Maes wonders if Gracia hasn’t adopted Winry for good.

The next one sees Winry and Gracia baking together, both grinning.  It’s apple pie.  Maes hopes Al gets his body back.  He can taste-test, and once all of this is over, Maes will look down on him for the results.  Better Al than Ed.  Ed’s palate is too biased.

“Is that it?” asks Maes.

“One more,” says Roy.  He puts the stack of photos in his pocket and reaches inside for his wallet.  Opening it, he reveals last photo.

It’s all of them: Roy, the Elrics, Winry, and Gracia and Elicia.  They’re sitting in the lounge, and it looks as if they’re hired a photographer for a meticulously posed photo, but Elicia has climbed Al and is sitting on his shoulders, Gracia trying to coax her down.  Ed and Roy have obviously begun to argue, and it looks like Winry is taking Ed’s side as she fixes him with a fierce look.

Maes glances up at Roy.  “They’re perfect,” he says.  “Thank you.”

“We haven’t forgotten you, Maes,” he says.  “But, we’re adjusting.  We need to be able to move on.”

Maes chokes.  “You do,” he says.

After a moment, in which Roy wraps one arm around Maes and rests their heads together, Roy stands and looks around.  “Hey,” he says.  “He’s ready to move on.”

Truth materialises.  “Good,” it says.  “You’ll stay where you’re put,” it orders Maes. 

“Course I will,” says Maes, and shoots a grin at Roy.  “And this one,” he points at Roy, “needs to get back out there.”

“I’ll walk you back,” says Roy.  “Just to the door.”

It’s a long walk, but not as long as Samson’s had felt.  Roy’s hand remains pressed between Maes’s shoulder blades.   It’s firm, a reminder that he’s still tethered to a world.

It feels like an awfully short eternity before they reach the door.  Maes fixes Roy with a look.  “Don’t do anything stupid,” he says.  “I’ll be watching.”

“I would never,” says Roy in mock offense.  They look at each other for a moment.  “Take care of yourself out there,” he says.  “I’ll take care of myself on the other side.”

“I will,” says Maes immediately.

He ghosts over the door handle with his hand, feeling every notch and every area of smoothness.  He opens it.  He’s surprised not to feel any trepidation – only calm.  He maintains his grip for a second, leaning on the door handle, and looks back at Roy.

“Oh, and Roy?” he says.

“Yes?” says Roy, eyes widening and blinking slightly, apparently stuck between letting himself cry and maintaining a brave face.

“Find yourself a good wife.”

And then he is gone.

*

_I have seen them riding seaward on the waves  
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back  
When the wind blows the water white and black.  
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea  
_ _By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown_

_Until human voices wake us, and we drown._

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Have a wonderful New Year and beyond, everyone, and please anticipate more fic throughout the year!


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